Puzzle Pieces
by PorcelainPerfection
Summary: What happens to the finished picture when half the pieces are missing?


If you would've asked sixteen year old Kurt Hummel where he would be in four years he would've said New York City like it was the most obvious thing in the world. But at sixteen I always thought I had everything figured out.

I dreamt of falling in love in high school with the prep school boy with the bright hazel eyes and breath-taking tenor voice. I dreamt of moving to New York City with my best friend where we would both make it on Broadway and become huge stars. I didn't, however, dream of where I ended up, standing hunched over the bathroom sink begging the contents of my stomach to stay where they are.

I shake my head like it will erase the memories of golden green eyes and perfect olive skin. A ghost of my past, the first piece of the puzzle I let slide through my fingers. I look in the mirror at my own eyes, an indiscernible mix of blues and grays and greens, surrounded by damp smudged blackness. The man in the mirror blinks back at me and I can't help but smile at how wrong my sixteen year old mind had been. I run black nailed fingers through once perfectly coiffed hair, now tipped pink and strategically style to look like I just woke up, and I watch the man in the mirror do the same.

At that moment I squeeze my eyes shut because the scent of motel bathroom is too familiar and nauseating and I want to sleep and let the memories swallow me and take me to a better place in my dreams where two boys fall in love and all the pieces fit in place

* * *

My eyes blink open slowly to dim sunlight floating though the crack underneath the door only a few inches from my face. I lay there motionless trying to make sense of the hazy memories floating through my mind. Music, alcohol, lights, bodies pressed together dancing to a wordless thumping beat like a single unit fueled by lust and booze clouded judgement. What next? I sit up slowly and lean my head back against the wall as the next wave of memories floods in. Soft, strong hand around my waist, words whispered in my ear breaking through the madness around us, and a short drive with very little speaking. My eyes travel the bathroom slowly, but only as a distraction, they don't see the tiles and porcelain they see a ripping package, and skin pressed to skin.

And in this manner I slowly become aware of why I'm in the same familiar situation, waking up in a bathroom remembering some nameless, faceless, man from the night before and hoping he's already awake and gone. And like every time my mind wanders to gold-speckled green and smooth olive skin, to navy blazers and the scent of coffee. More specifically my mind locks on to one particular memory, always the same one, raised voices in a coffee shop, and the pleading hidden behind rage I had never seen in his eyes. Rage that was there because I was his best friend and I wasn't there for him when he was confused, because I was selfish and didnt want him to question himself, because I was stubborn I didnt stick around to see the fall out, because I was childish I let the only boy I ever really loved slip away.

My eyes flash open because the world around me is more pleasent than the world in my head, the tiles and steady dripping of water in the sink rescue me from the past. I reach up and grip the edge of porcelain and pull myself upright on to trembling legs. The man in the mirror looks back at me with tired eyes and I sigh softly as my fingertips trace along meaningless black tribal embeded forever into the skin of my neck. I freeze because I hear footsteps, because I don't want to face in the morning the mistakes I made the night before, then there's a soft knock and my breath stays trapped in my lungs until I hear a smooth familiar voice say my name.

I practically fly to the door and rip it off the hinges to fling myself into the arms of my best friend and roommate, who once again miraculously came to my rescue when even I wasnt sure where I was. My eyes flutter shut when soft familiar lips press against my temple, the lips of the first man I ever gave myself to, the lips of someone over time I have slowly come to love, despite the images of gold and green flooding my thoughts. My eyes open and peer up to see dark blue looking down at me and I lean forward and bring my lips to his, tangling my fingers in wavy brown hair and willing the ghosts of my past to be quiet and let me enjoy the brighter pieces of my present.

I pull my lips away and smile very slightly to let him known I'm still sane, still holding myself together, even though my prior actions seemed quite desperate. "We should head home, you don't look like you slept very well." His voice snaps me back to the present and away from bodies hurrying down a staircase, away from soft polyester beneath my fingers, and away from golden green eyes brimming with curiosity and amusement.

"Yeah, you're right." My voice sounds tired and he must notice because I can feel him take my hand and lead me out into blinding sunlight and before my brain registers whats happening I'm sitting in the passenger seat of his car with my face in my hands. "Thank you." I speak softly and with feeling that I reserve solely for him and my family when they make their concerned calls to make sure I'm still breathing. "You're a good friend Jesse." And I look out the window to avoid the hurt and rage swimming in his eyes because the only word that registers for him is friend, because I can't love him with all the intensity that he loves me, because my every thought is plagued by gold and green.

* * *

Hours later I wake up wrapped in warmth without a clue how I got there. It's dark now and I can hear the gentle clanging of metal against metal coming from the general direction of the kitchen. The red letters on the alarm clock are telling me it's 8:30 PM and I groan audibly because I've slept through the entire day again. I pull myself out of bed and to the bathroom to wash away the seemingly constant presence of glitter, and sex, and booze, and make up, like I'm a walking tribute to the 1980's.

I lean my head against the wall of the shower and let the steaming water run over my skin, begging it to wash away the guilt plaguing my thoughts. The water can't clean my insides, can't make me stop hating every choice, can't make me put down the blade. Teary glasz eyes lock on to a thin river of crimson pooling and running slowly along pale scarred flesh, dripping and mixing with water, spiralling, dissapearing. I wish in that moment once again that I could melt into liquid and vanish down the drain.

I follow a soft melody down the hallway, with my artwork hidden away by black fabric I observe Jesse with the same grace he's had since I met him sit with his back to me completely enveloped by the music his fingers weave over the keys of the piano. It's a sad tune, but it's beautiful, and even though I can't see his eyes I know they are swimming with unshed tears that he will probably never release. I move slowly closing the distance between us and sit lightly on the bench beside him. His voice begins to sing to words to the song his fingers know by heart and I let mine join his. Our voices dance together, one powerful and growling, the other no less in its power but crystal clear and bell like.

When the music stops he lays his head on my shoulder and tells me again and again how worried he is, how he's afraid he's going to find me battered one of these days when I follow the wrong man to a cheap motel. Or worse, dead from the cocktail of liquor, and pills, and intravenous drugs I fill my body to the breaking point with. He lets himself cry, warm tears soak my shirt, but I stay silent the whole time because I can't find it in myself to tell him that I just can't stop.

* * *

The icy fingers of the night air ruffle my hair as I move quickly though the streets avoiding the judgmental glances that are always given to the man with the black clothing and piercings on his face. My boots slush snow as my feet almost instinctively follow the path to the only place outside of my home I can feel comfortable and accepted. I walk through the doors and am welcomed by flashing lights and pounding music and the ever present sight of leather and lace and spikes and chains an once again I can melt into the crowd and feel safe like I could in my high school glee club.

I shake away the memories as quickly as they come and head for the bar desperate to replace the numb that I had lost from sleeping the day away. One, two, three shots and my body is moving gracefully to the music, ignoring the press of men and women around me and savoring the ability to lose myself completely amongst the crowd. A strong, gentle hand rests itself on my shoulder and a voice speaks above the thump of the music. "Excuse me?" I spin around ready to snap at the owner of the voice for the unwanted touch and I freeze because my eyes are locked on to golden green and this time they aren't trapped in my memories.


End file.
